


Percurrentis Vobiscum

by Sineluce_Velius_Tristitia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alas 4 years is a very long time, Character Death, F/M, Future Slash, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It used to be one, It's not really a happy fic, Just you wait - Freeform, M/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, The marauders will be in it, This is the rewritten version, WIP, it might get better, kind of, timetravel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-19 22:23:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13133454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineluce_Velius_Tristitia/pseuds/Sineluce_Velius_Tristitia
Summary: “There’s no good and evil. There’s only power and those too weak to seek it.”Those words stuck in his mind, repeating over and over again like a broken record; hollowly ringing in the darkness of the vestiges of unconsciousness.Harry Potter would remain ignorant of things that should matter, butHarry would always know.





	1. Chapter 1

“ _There’s no good and evil. There’s only power and those too weak to seek it.”_

Those words stuck in his mind, repeating over and over again like a broken record; hollowly ringing in the darkness of the vestiges of unconsciousness. His head ached as awareness came to him, _Voldemort’s_ words haunting him even in this state. Something had changed and a large part of him quivered at this unexpected turn.

It was with only a small amount of surprise that as his eyes wandered his surroundings— _assessing and cautious and why hadn’t he done this before? He had always been cautious_ — he was met with the blurry figure of the headmaster sitting beside him.

“Professor?” Harry mumbled, moving to reach for where he hoped his glasses were. Once it was in his hands, he put it on and blinked as the world came into better focus.

“Good morning my dear boy,” Professor Dumbledore greeted with a smile.

Staring a bit pointedly at the darkened sky outside, Harry wondered at how barmy the old man could ever be.

“Ah yes, a fine morning indeed,” The old man continued jovially, as if it was normal to have a conversation with a student in the _Hospital Wing_ when the _sun isn’t even at the horizon_. “I do apologize for this sudden, ah, conversation, but I thought it would be better to answer your questions now than in the morning.”

Harry merely blinked in confusion, barely audible hisses making itself known and ringing through his head, whispering of unsavory things that Harry was able to bat away with a discreet tilt of the head.

“I’m afraid Professor Quirrell hadn’t made it.” Professor Dumbledore’s voice oozed sadness— _too much_ , Harry absently thought. “Voldemort’s influence was simply too strong and their separation had caused Professor Quirrell’s body to give in.”

“But sir,” Harry felt a small wave of _something_ wash over him and the hisses became screeches and he had to hold back a wince. “W-What about the Stone?” He was shaking as the screeching reached a painful level.

Professor Dumbledore, it seemed, took this as the child being scared. “I had it destroyed as soon as I was able to. We simply cannot risk such an object to exist and tempt _Voldemort_ with it.”

“But the Flamels—”

“Knew what I was going to do,” Professor Dumbledore cut in. “I daresay Nicolas and Perenelle  were more than ready to sacrifice the Stone for the greater good.”

Then another wave of that _something_ had the screeches turn deafening and Harry felt something _break_ and _shatter_.

_Believemebelievemebelieveme—_

Harry didn’t know what happened next but when his eyes opened, it was to bright sunlight and quiet murmurs of Madam Pomfrey.

And it was in the Great Hall—during the Leaving Feast at Hogwarts where the banners changed from green and silver to obnoxious red and gold with the same unpleasantness of forced victory—that Harry managed to figure something out.

_Magic. Compulsion._

It wasn’t something beyond the realm of belief. Because the Headmaster’s twinkling, knowing and _smug_ eyes rankled at Harry.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Harry wasn’t stupid; far from it. Even with the Dursleys beating him down every chance they got, they couldn’t stop a young child’s mind from working; especially not Harry’s.

The moment he could, Uncle Vernon locked Harry up in his cupboard, nevermind that they had given Harry his own bedroom. His things—his trunk, his dear Hedwig, his broom—were all cramped in with him, leaving him with little to no space to move. Harry calmed the irate owl with gentle strokes, the motion familiar and soothing even to the boy.

He hadn’t talked to Ron or Hermione on the train ride back, not because he was afraid to do so as they had suspected, but because Harry had never really been a talkative child. It was, fortunately or unfortunately, due to the Dursleys’ hatred of all things _Harry_.

And that called to attention how he had acted at Hogwarts.

Harry certainly wasn’t brash, nor was he brave. In fact, Harry could distinctly remember putting down Ravenclaw as the first option if he was ever to get into Hogwarts. Slytherin, if he was pushing things; and Hufflepuff if he disliked the people in those two other houses. Certainly, no shred of Gryffindor chivalry and bravery existed in the bones of Harry Potter.

Then as he rooted through his things in the meager light coming from outside of the cupboard, hoping to get some textbooks out to pass the time, he came across a notepad. He read through it, recognizing his writing and gasping as he remembered furiously researching the new, _wonderful_ world of magic.

Detailed notes and diagrams on transfiguration, anagrams and mnemonics set for memorizing constellations, list of potions ingredients and its uses, significance of wand movement in casting charms, and even quoted laws in banning of Dark Magic.

Why hadn’t he remembered any of these in the whole year at Hogwarts?

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Escaping from the Dursleys had always been an easy thing to do, given that he did it at night and never in the morning. He’d had much practice and the invisibility cloak merely made it a lot easier.

Sometimes, the Dursleys could be utterly stupid. Honestly, leaving him with his trunk inside the cupboard. They could have done better.

And so here he was, standing outside the white, marble walls of Gringotts, invisible to the few stragglers who came and went in the mostly closed down Alley.

Removing the cloak, Harry flattened his fringe to cover his distinctive scar and resolutely walked over through the doors and beyond the sneering Goblin guards. He shuddered, feeling something wash over him. It didn’t feel unpleasant, not like what he suspected as the Headmaster’s magic. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden lighting inside the building as compared to the darkness of the Alley.

The messy haired boy walked over to one of the open tellers and waited for the Goblin to finish whatever it is doing. It was simply impolite to demand someone’s attention when they are busy; Aunt Petunia would always smack him to shut him up when he needed their attention.

Finally, after a few minutes of utter silence from Harry, the Goblin teller stopped riffling through sheets of parchment and stared at the boy with a toothy grin.

“What may Gringotts help you with, Mr. Potter?”

Harry scuffed his feet on the ground, wondering how he would word what he wanted to say. It’s not like he knew how to communicate with these beings properly. “Good evening, Goblin teller, sir, it has come to my attention that I am not… as wholly aware of the Wizarding World as I should be.” He barely made the last part into a statement and not a question.

The Goblin, seemingly amused by the way he was acting, widened his grin to the point that Harry became nervous.

“Then perhaps you should have asked your… _professors_ at Hogwarts to teach you, Mr. Potter. Gringotts is a bank, not a learning institution.”

Harry flushed lightly in embarrassment but plowed through. “Yes I could have. However, there are some reasons that caused me to believe that someone may be…messing with my mind?”

The Goblin stilled and his grin disappeared. “’ _Messing with your mind’?”_   The creature looked over the desk and bored holes into Harry, as if willing the child to say something else.

“Yes,” Harry nearly stuttered, feeling intimidated by the–no doubt—powerful creature. “Is it possible to change a person’s behavior through magic?”

Seconds ticked on as the Goblin continued to scrutinize the boy. Beady, black eyes stared deep into the Boy-Who-Lived’s. Finally, as Harry felt he was nearing a breakdown, the Goblin leaned back in his seat and snapped his fingers.

“Knarlhand!” The Goblin snapped with urgency that startled Harry. “Bring Mr. Potter to the ritual room and prepare him for an _Heir’s Bathe_.”

Harry found his voice just as another Goblin marched over to them. “Not to be rude but what is an _Heir’s Bathe?_ ”

“Purebloods, as you may have yet to find out, do care for their heirs,” The Goblin teller explained with an unreadable face. “Heirs continue the line of the Family and the _Bathe_ cleanses them of any sort of magic holding them against their, or their Lord’s, will. Only the Lords of the Houses know of the _Bathe_. You would do well to remember that, Mr. Potter. It is only some stroke of luck that at this time, you are the only client at Gringotts. Had there been any other wizard or witch in presence, we would not have offered this to you unless you have known of it beforehand.”

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

The _Bathe_ did not give a specific list of what it had cleansed a person off of, nor is it able to tell who had casted the spell or curse. All it did was to sever those ties made unwillingly and notify the victim how much was casted on them and how many were responsible for it.

And the _Water_ —composed of many substances the Goblins did not say it contained—had turned into a black sludge devoid of other colors. It meant, as Knarlhand had explained, that only one magical being had attempted— _and succeeded_ —to dictate his will. It was an offense legally punishable by death under the Heir Protection Laws.

It did not take too much effort for them to find out to _whom_ the magic belonged to.

So spelled the deterioration of the image of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore in the eyes of the Goblins and the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry Potter felt the calm rumination of cold fury settle at his stomach, numbing his very being at this sort of betrayal. He had _hoped_ and _trusted_ and he was burned back by it. He should have known, should have _expected it_ by now.

“I hope for your continued good fortune, Gornhack.” Harry offered with a flat tone of voice, truly grateful for the Goblins’ help yet too absorbed in keeping his magic from destroying anything— _his magic, oh how could he have neglected it in favor of that damned wand and novelty of fitting in when he could not—_

Gornhack, the Goblin teller, grinned at the boy. “And may your enemies bow down at your feet, Heir Potter.”

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

He did not take immediate action against the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; instead, Harry Potter decided to bide his time. There was next to nothing an eleven year old school boy could do in damaging an experienced and exalted wizard.

The Wizarding World had already set up an image for their Boy-Who-Lived, and Harry had an idea of the fickle nature of humanity as a whole. The Dursleys were prime examples of that.

So the boy would hide under the radar, living the life of the Boy-Who-Lived as they expected it. To them, it didn’t matter that _Harry_ was a cold, bitter boy shaped by the cruel hands of his relatives and manipulative words of Albus Dumbledore.

“ _There’s no good or evil. There’s only power and those too weak to seek it.”_

_And knowledge is power._

Harry Potter would remain ignorant of things that should matter, but _Harry_ would always _know_.


	2. Chapter 2

In the next few weeks, Harry snuck into Diagon Alley whenever he could. The Goblins, once presented with a respectful and willing to learn wizard, were a bit more willing to help. Though Harry suspected it was because he was the Heir of at least two influential Families (the Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter and, by extension, the Most Ancient and Long Forgotten House of Peverell), but their assistance was much appreciated.

There were days, of course, that Harry was too…indisposed to sneak into his beloved magical world. He couldn’t let his sleep suffer or else his days were going to be absolute hell. It was, then, more practical to stay and sleep in his cupboard than lamenting over his relatives’ continued negligence to give him food while he was forced to clean every inch of number 4 Privet Drive.

Ron and Hermione still hadn’t sent him any letters and even if he had made friends with them under the influence of the Headmaster’s magic, Harry thought they were, at least, more than a bunch of children manipulated to be friends.

 _(And it hurt, really. And the cold numbness slowly turned into apathy because he_ should have known better.)

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

He eyed the quivering House Elf with a simmering cold fury.

Harry had been watering the plants in the small garden when the creature—a House Elf, as it eventually told him—made itself known. Big, tennis ball eyes stared up at him with a mixture of fear and awe, speaking of how he is “ _the great Harry Potter!”_ and how he shouldn’t go to Hogwarts because “ _something very bads”_ will happen.

Then the creature had the audacity to give a smug smile when Harry tried the simplest approach of saying no. “Ah, but no one cares enoughs for the great Harry Potter but Dobby!”

And it clicked into place.

“What have you done, elf?” Harry spoke, barely above a whisper, and this had the creature trembling all the harder. “What did you do.”

This seemed to have intimidated the House Elf and it snapped its fingers, a tied up pile of letters appearing out of nowhere. With trembling hands, the creature presented it to Harry who simply looked at it with a blank face.

Slowly, carefully, the boy took it in his hand.

Too busy reading the familiar, curving letters of _To: Harry Potter_ , he did not see the determined look on the House Elf.

“Harry Potter must not go to Hogwarts!”

Then the creature disappeared and Harry panicked, looking around to see where the determined creature had gone to. Catching a glimpse of Dobby through the window, Harry ran into the house and quickly hid the letters inside one of the many boxes in his cupboard.

Just in time as he heard the angry bellow of his uncle.

“ _Freak! Get your useless arse in here!”_

And then an owl—clearly not his beautiful Hedwig he had let out as soon as he could—dropped a letter right in front of him, reading its contents loud enough for everyone in the house to hear.

The sinister glint in his uncle’s eyes as they learned of the illegality of underage use of magic had Harry forcefully locking himself in his cupboard.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Harry knew he could speak to snakes. They had provided him with company when he was a child though they weren’t the best of conversationalists. Most of them were too driven by their instinct to hold a casual conversation with a human child. They could speak endlessly of hunting and almost nothing of the emotional counsel that little Harry had needed.

What he didn’t know was that only the Heir of Slytherin could do it.

Parseltongue.

The language known to only be spoken by the Dark Lord Voldemort.

It was, then, only a bit understandable that the students of Hogwarts would fear him for it. But he knew he wasn’t the Heir of Slytherin. And certainly, it was too presumptuous of them to believe that only those with Slytherin’s blood could speak the language of the snakes. Slytherin came from the Peverell line and the Potters also came from the Peverell line.

But the Boy-Who-Lived doesn’t know that.

And so he had to hunt down the Heir of Slytherin in a foolish venture to prove that he isn’t the one petrifying the students.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

“Clever,” Harry commented as he stared at the words.

Tom Riddle gave him a thin smile, looking neither annoyed nor irritated. Indulging, maybe. “Thank you.”

Then Harry’s attention went to the pale body of an unconscious Ginevra Weasley. Her ginger hair matted with dirt and damp with sweat. Ron’s sister. Perhaps he should feel more urgency in helping her but being in the presence of whom Lord Vodlemort had been is more pressing.

“Wouldn’t you save dear Ginny?” Tom Riddle asked, curiosity oozing from his tone and smothering the malignancy present in talking to a boy who had apparently defeated his future self. “Why aren’t you, Harry Potter?”

“Let’s make a deal.” Harry said, hand stroking the auburn hair, hoping that maybe it would make him feel a little less callous at the situation. “You stop draining her life force and I will give you the means to gain a corporeal form.”

Tom Riddle gave a high, chilling laugh reminiscent of Voldemort’s. “And why would I believe you? You; a mere child who strives in the attention of being the _Boy-Who-Lived_.”

A spark of annoyance had Harry twitch. “Because I can.” With those words, Harry cut off the memory’s connection to the girl he had pulled on his lap. He could only do it due to his own connection with Voldemort and soon, Tom Riddle’s form began losing its solidity.

Harry watched with satisfaction as realization— _what kind of realization?_ —dawned on Tom Riddle’s face. Tom Riddle faded until he was barely that of a ghost and remained so only because Harry wished it to be so.

“Do we have a deal, Tom?”

Tom’s gaze at the boy was calculating, not angry as Harry had expected him to be. Then the translucent boy smirked. “You intrigue me, Harry Potter.” At Harry’s narrowed gaze, the other boy mockingly sighed. “I rather think you left me with no other choice; then I suppose we have an accord.”

And Tom Riddle is back in the diary.

What came to be in the Headmaster’s possession was nothing but a crude imitation of Tom Marvolo Riddle’s journal. And the Monster of Slytherin remained slumbering deep within Hogwarts, awaiting its master’s next call.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry was forever thankful of Gornhack and the other Goblins of Gringotts. He couldn’t remember what had happened just that he had been so angry at the way the Dursleys talked about his parents _who had never done anything to them and Harry wondered they had left him all alone—_

As it was, the Ministry detected another bout of underage magic in number 4 Privet Drive.

Harry only became aware of what had happened when the Minister _himself_ was in front of him. Apparently, he had blown up his Aunt Marge until she floated into the sky, causing the Obliviation Squad to have to obliviate a lot of muggles. He only regretted that his magic didn’t continue to blow her up until she popped like a rubber balloon.

Then he was “asked” to stay in the Leaky Cauldron until the 1st of September.

It was suspicious, of course, that the Minister would concern himself with Harry Potter. Even if he is the Boy-Who-Lived, he could not recall any sort of tie Cornelius Fudge had to the name Potter; nothing enough to warrant his focus.

But Griphook, his accounts manager, was more than happy to supply him information.

Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban. His Godfather. He _had_ a Godfather.

And from what the Goblins knew—and they knew absolutely _everything_ about their clients—the man was never a Death Eater.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Despite staying in the Leaky Cauldron— _inside the truly wonderful magical world, where he should belong_ —for half of his summer and celebrating his birthday by assuming his role as his own Head of House, Harry missed Hogwarts terribly. He missed the ancient knowledge inscribed in the very essence of the castle, the tenderness Hogwarts _herself_ lavished onto every student that trudged through her walls.

He always enjoyed the warm welcome she would give to every person entering her wards.

But this year, he had missed it.

And it was all because of the Dementors haunting the edges of the wards of Hogwarts, as if _she_ could not defend her own.

He had a stronger reaction towards them than any other person. He’d had to relive the moment of his parents’ death over and over again until their effects are chased away by the absence of the looming presence of a Dementor—

_There’s no good and evil—_

It didn’t matter that his magic could be considered sentient. It didn’t matter that he had a natural alignment towards either types of magic. Dementors are creatures created by the worst of human kind—an anomaly of magic manifested in the same way as poltergeists.

They could never be destroyed, just as the entirety of humanity can never die.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Staring at Ron’s injured form, Harry felt a pang of… _something_.

The injury wasn’t severe. It was just a sprained (perhaps broken) ankle, mauled when Sirius dragged him off into the passage hidden under the Whomping Willow. Nothing life threatening, not even an infected cut.

Ron was fine.

But as the Time Turner whisked him and Hermione away into a different time, Ron’s fearful but determined face etched itself in his mind.

It was that fear and determination that Harry and Hermione had used when they saved Sirius and— _yes, he would rather live with a man he never knew than be back with the Dursleys._

(And Harry had long since learned that good things would never come to someone like _him._ )

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Harry stared at the stone Gargoyle that served as the guard to the Headmaster’s office. It stared right back at him with beady, statuesque eyes.

“May I come in?” Harry decided to break the awkward silence. “The Headmaster is expecting me.” And he hadn’t thought to give Harry the password.

The Gargoyle remained in its position.

Harry sighed and placed his hand on one of its bent knee, sending a pulse of his magic to convey his intention. If words didn’t work, then perhaps this would.

And it did. The Gargoyle sprung to life and stepped aside, revealing the staircase that he had only ever stepped into once. He hadn’t thought that he would need to again. The Headmaster was not one of the people he would like to see now despite his help in letting Sirius escape.

(It was the old man’s fault in the first place. Harry couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ ever forget that.)

With slight trepidation, he stepped up into the stairs and before he could knock on the door, it opened to reveal the Headmaster’s office. Shelves upon shelves of books lined the walls and stacks of books and parchment littered every available surface. It was a hovel of knowledge that Harry wished to peruse at some time. The Potter Family Vault only held so much and Hogwarts’ library held too little in the wealth of Gringotts.

His eyes caught that of the Headmaster’s twinkling ones.

“My boy,” Albus Dumbledore spoke as if it was a delight to see him. “It’s wonderful that you could join me here. Care for some Sherbet Lemons?”

Harry shook his head. “No thank you, Headmaster.”

“Ah, well, shame.” The Headmaster popped one sweet in his mouth and hummed. Then he seemed to have noticed that Harry was only standing on the threshold. “Come in, come in! Don’t be so shy my boy. Here, sit.”

Harry did so reluctantly, torn between anger and calm. He could not forget that the man in front of him could be so callous as to manipulate a child’s—perhaps even _others’_ —mind. But it seems, for now at least, that the wily old man was content in what he is seeing.

Harry Potter never did anything to stray from the path set for him.

For him to do that was tantamount to harming himself.

But _Harry_ lived his own separate life from Harry Potter.

(He ignored the insistent voice in his mind that told him— _what’s so different about you? You’re nothing but a freak, nothing but a waste of space. You should have died with those good for nothing parents of yours._ )

Because they _are_ different.

Harry Potter would live and die for magic, blind to the faults of those who wish to use him.

 _Harry_ would live and die for magic, eyes wide open to what could happen.

There’s no good and evil. There’s only the choices one had to make and Harry would, and always will, choose magic above everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last update for the 25th of December!


	4. Chapter 4

Life had a way of working.

Death is an inevitable end of life’s workings.

He had died, fulfilling the words of the prophecy.

The pain that seared through his bones at the end of the Dark Lord’s wand remained a deep ache that focused him on his task. Defeat the Dark Lord to end his reign.

_For neither can live while the other survives._

The one with the power…

Power was what Harry had. Power, strength and knowledge. Not the experience that Voldemort had. But with the words of the prophecy, there was yet _hope—_ never something he entertained and yet here he is, cradled in the hands of a sobbing half-giant, pretending to be dead.

Hope is what rallies the people.

And Harry Potter is that hope.

They neared the site as Voldemort gave chilling laugh, “ _Harry Potter is dead._ ”

Silence rung heavy in the air, even the Death Eaters rendered unresponsive. His breath is almost heavy in the silence.

What a fickle thing hope is.

“From this day forth, you lay your faith in me,” Voldemort spoke in the hush, voice carrying over the winds like the tinkling screams from a nightmare, “Harry Potter is _dead_. And now it is time to declare yourself; come forward and join us!” Then, as if it were not enough to be left unsaid, he added, “Or _die_.”

“Draco.”

Lucius Malfoy. A Lord, a Death Eater, and—maybe his most redeeming yet undeserved title—a father. His voice is almost pleading to those who knew what to listen for. And perhaps Draco Malfoy knew this because the sound of footsteps was unmistakable.

There was no triumph in Voldemort’s declaration of the boy’s name. It was, instead, filled with an anger that cannot be described.

No one else stepped forward.

Until the disparaging laughs echoed hollowly into what once was a powerful fortress.

“Neville Longbottom.”

For a moment, Harry had the urge to open his eyes, disbelief— _betrayal, anger_ —swimming through each deafening pound of his heart. But he held still, held so still and tense that it was a wonder Hagrid was unable to tell that he wasn’t quite what Voldemort claimed him to be.

“Not to worry, I’m sure we can find a place for you.”

Through his simmering anger, it was hard not to miss Neville’s next words.

“I’d like to say something,” Neville spoke with hard confidence that only Harry had been privy to. “It doesn’t matter that Harry’s _gone_. People die every day—friends… _family_. Yeah, we lost Harry tonight. But he’s still with us…in here. So is Fred, Remus, Tonks… _all of them_. They didn’t die in vain! But you _will_ ‘cause you’re wrong! Harry’s heart did beat for us—for _all_ of us!”

“It’s not over!”

Harry Potter opened his eyes.

Hope is fickle, he thought, but passion and survival— _passion for survival—_ is not.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes. He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not now. Not when he is facing the Dark Lord.

“Why do you fight, Harry Potter?” Voldemort taunted as ribbons of black whipped to reach for Harry, countenance relaxed even as the boy deflected most of the attacks. “Why do you continue to defy me? You have such potential and yet here you stand, in battle against _your own_.”

Harry faltered but quickly covered his misstep with another _Stupefy_.

“ _Oh_ do stop with these menial spells, Potter,” Voldemort gave a lipless smile that sparked the cinders of fear and anger. “Is it not more worthy to die by giving your all? Such _power_ you have that I simply _cannot_ ignore it. Perhaps it had been amiss of me to make an enemy of you. But alas, a prophecy should not be left to be fulfilled.”

“ _No_ ,” Harry finally chose to answer. “But by acting on it, you have doomed yourself. _Expelliarmus!”_

The surprise in the Dark Lord’s face is apparent as the spell whizzed at an alarming speed and hit its target. The ebony black wand came to rest at Harry’s hand, humming with _so much_ magic that he momentarily lost himself in the rush.

Hand raised, holding both wands aloft, Harry cast the spell that would finally end it all.

“ _Avada Kedavra_.”

It didn’t happen in slow motion as Harry expected it to. His heart beat so fast and the air buzzed with excitement. Voldemort was there and then he wasn’t. The Dark Lord’s shriek of agony pierced the bubble they had stepped inside and sounds of battle finally registered in Harry’s mind.

The sounds stopped as the people watched Voldemort’s _crumbling_.

And then with renewed vigor, the light side pounced on the shocked Death Eaters, pouring in their exhaustion and rage as the vestiges of euphoria of _defeating the Dark Lord_ started creeping in.

No one noticed the green spell erupting from the wand of a hooded figure with long white beard. No one noticed the spell was directed to their savior until Hermione Granger, in an adrenalin-filled worry, frantically searched for her two best friends.

Eyes widening and hands twitching with nerves and the start of exhaustion, Hermione Granger did the only thing her mind and body allowed her to do.

“ _Harry!”_

And then she ran and _ran_ , holding on to her _brother_ just as the spell was to hit its intended target. Harry had always been good at maintaining his balance and Hermione was only able to be grateful that she had covered him before her world fell away.

Harry was left to carry her weight. He was unable to, numb with shock. He stared, watched, and _hoped_ but her eyes remained unseeing.

 _Dead_.

Life had a way of working.

Death is an inevitable end of life’s workings.

And he screamed with rage.

When he caught sight of familiar blue eyes and long, white beard, he felt the cold rage settle into fiery embers of roaring fire but it was too late, the killing curse struck him too and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yeah_...


	5. Chapter 5

 

He woke up, muscles aching bone-deep and skin buzzing still with the remnants of rage and adrenaline. It was an especially slow process, not at all like him. His limbs tingled every now and then and his mind worked at a terribly slow rate.

The cobwebs of unconsciousness took an impression of eternity to thaw. Every passing thought leaving him as soon as it came to him. It was utterly confusing.

Recollection did not come soon enough.

It was needless to say that he _shouldn’t_ be clearing cobwebs of _unconsciousness_ when he, theoretically, should be dead. The prophecy has been fulfilled; the Dark Lord has been vanquished and defeated in almost every sense of the word. Death should have had a firmer hold over his life than Fate or Destiny.

And when his eyes opened, he found himself staring into an almost familiar visage. The starkly cleaned walls and ceiling of Platform 9 and ¾ cheerfully greeted him with the ornery of its symbolism.

Harry did not need to look around to know he wasn’t alone, “Haven’t I done enough?” because while the rage settled in so deep and intertwined into every emotion he could have—and _did_ have—had, Harry is _tired_.

Then gathering up strength in his limbs, Harry pushed himself up with no small amount of effort. It was simply impolite to speak while lying down on his back, the receiver present or not.

The absence of vitriol in his voice surprised even him. He wasn’t bitter of his continued survival. He wasn’t even angry. All the fight, all the _rage_ that he held on to push through the life of Harry Potter simply vanished. It left him hollow and raw and— _drowning in it, choking him within his sanity, clawing, burrowing, peeling him off_ —

Harry Potter is dead.

Voldemort was correct in that.

But that left _Harry_. And Harry had only ever lived within the confines of Harry Potter’s skin.

His eyes caught something off of the immaculate cleanliness of the station.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. _Screaming_ seemed to be more like his mood today. His breakdown is ugly and wet and loud and obnoxious.

To his side lay the body of Hermione Granger.

Breathing.

 _Alive_.

And he didn’t know what had upset him so.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Time didn’t seem to be of essence in the station.

He spent a sizeable amount of time coming to terms with _something_ he isn’t quite sure what. Counting the seconds proved to be too tedious in that he sometimes exhausts himself into unconsciousness. He counts up to an hour and then he loses track. He tried marking off each hour he’s awake but any marks inflicted upon any surface vanished as if turned back in time.

He’d tried scratching it on his own skin but it simply healed and as if this part of reality knew what he was doing, he found less and less sharp objects, not even his jagged nails could do it. Soon enough, scratching at his arms and legs became too vapid without the desired results.

Hermione hasn’t awakened in that time. Harry was becoming worried that she wasn’t quite as alive as he thought.

He found himself periodically checking on her breathing, counting her pulse and comparing it with his, pulling her eyelids back and mustering up his magic to create light just to see if her pupils would react. They were all normal. He didn’t know what else to do.

The past few—Hours? Days? _Weeks?_ –he didn’t know how long was spent curled around her body, his head on her chest, tracking the rhythmic thump of her heart and the rise and fall as she breathed. He’d stopped counting—stopped thinking because doing so with the eerie stillness of the station would have driven him mad.

Time didn’t matter.

He shifted, the terrible ache of being in a cramped position for a long time—or perhaps it wasn’t even that long—nonexistent in this place. His hand reached up to her cheek and trailed down to her neck, pressing for the _thumpthumpthump_ there. It was slow, steady, mirroring her unconscious state.

Harry breathed in time with her.

“Please wake up.”

But it didn’t happen, just as it hadn’t when he’d screamed it and shook her in vain.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

“Why are we here?”

It was a question he’d screamed just as he had millions of words. Now, it seemed so long a time ago. His voice is hushed now, not hoarse.

Almost subconsciously, his hold around the precious, _precious_ body tightened protectively as a chill swept through the air. It was the only response he got to his questions.

He held his breath as the chill worsened.

It hadn’t ever gone this far, whatever _it_ is.

Then tentatively, as if a child curious with a bug, the coldness wrapped around them. Harry tensed, ready to fight even as he knew he _shouldn’t_. The embrace was familiar, not unlike the scene that played around his mind of the _wonderful_ feel of magic.

But this couldn’t be magic, or Hogwarts.

They are warmth and joy and _powerwisdomcaring_. This is coldness and burning and _fearterrorsorrowlovemercy_.

 _It_ drew a rattling breath.

Then _it_ was gone.

Under his tense embrace, the body beside him jolted.

Hermione Granger opened her eyes.

“ _Harry?_ ”

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Time passed faster. Sometimes it was slower. But Hermione was there, alive, breathing, talking, and crying _for_ him. It was confusing, still.

“You didn’t have to do everything for them—for _us_.” It was spat like the most acidic bile. “You’ve done enough, you’ve _suffered enough_.” Then she’d hugged him, wet his hair with her tears. “I feel like _I_ haven’t done anything. That Ron and I haven’t even been there with you. We would have _died_ for you—” She let out a small laugh he’d scowled at. “ _I have died for you_ , Harry. Isn’t that enough for you to know that we- _I_ love you?”

And sometimes he was the one crying and _raging_.

His words weren’t as coherent as hers, his mind and mouth unable to form the words for _everything_.

Harry Potter is _dead_.

Hermione Granger knew it.

But Hermione Granger also knows _Harry_.

And every time he passes out, curled into a tight ball, Hermione cried and _cried_ for them. It was the grief, the loss, the _sorrow and anger and fear_ that mercilessly crushes her heart.

Because she knew where they are.

Hermione Granger died in the battlefield and there wasn’t anyone to replace her. But Harry was there and having him was better than having anyone.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Hermione’s head lay on his lap, her breathing even and spaced longer when _it_ came again.

 _It_ brought with _it_ the chill of cold winter nights spent out in the forest under the feeble protection of a tent. Warming charms weren’t enough and no amount of meditation blocked out the tortured screams of the Dark Lord’s victims.

Finding himself bolder, Harry whispered into nothingness, “What are you?”

He watched, enraptured as before him nonexistent shadows condensed into a dark blur. _It_ had neither shape nor substance, not anything that Harry could see. _Its_ darkness flowed freely, tendrils flaring and wavering, anchored crudely in a center.

_An Obscurus?_

_It_ —floatedglidedmoved—towards them. Harry remained relaxed, curious as to what _it_ wants, what called _it_ here now.

The dark mass stopped just before _it_ reached Hermione’s sprawled out feet.

He stared and felt _its_ gaze. _Its_ attention is heavy, burdened, and parturient with _knowing_. If he had believed in the God of the Dursleys, _it_ is the closest he would describe _it_ as.

Then a wisp of _its_ wavering tendrils _floatedglidedmoved_ towards him, _its_ touch barely even there yet leaving a searing mark in its wake. The wisp snapped back into the anchor and _writhed_.

Harry didn’t scream and yet it echoed through this pocket of reality. Hermione didn’t wake. He simply sat there, frozen and burning but immobile.

And then he _knew_ and everything snapped into place.

Harry Potter is dead but _Harry_ is _Death_.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

The visions started coming.

Whenever he closed his eyes, broken bodies and unseeing eyes filled his mind—young, old, male, female, in times past and in times yet to pass. There was no context, nothing to indicate what happened, what is happening and what will happen. But Harry _knew_ each and every one of them.

In these visions, he is detached, a mere spectator as tribes were killed for their land, children ripped away from their parents for the insanity of human kind, people left to starve due their religion, needless hunts for creatures they didn’t even need for anything… but he felt it all.

He felt the wounds of every soldier, felt every _cry_ the earth emitted in absolute desperation…felt himself torn up by the destruction of magic.

Harry watched it all, _Death_ at his side.

And Hermione remained clueless, worried and helpless as Harry closed off again. Another part of himself he wouldn’t dare bare to another.

When the train came to disturb the absolute stillness, it was both a relief and a loss.

“Let’s go.” Harry whispered as he tugged at her hands.

“Why?” asked Hermione with deep conflict written clearly on her face. “Where are we going?”

Harry opened his mouth but was unable to find words. “Somewhere.”

“ _Somewhere?_ ”

The longer they lingered the closer Harry felt _Death_. He wasn’t running away, they weren’t going to run away. But _Death_ felt the desire to make Hermione _know_ and Harry would never want it to happen to anyone else. It isn’t a burden Harry would want for her to have.

“Let’s go.” Harry repeated firmly.

This time, Hermione went without question and they are in the train, huddled together in a corner seat. It was an automatic move that neither of them put a thought to.

“Harry,” Hermione called his attention away from staring at the vague imprints of people walking outside the train, “What are we going to do?”

Harry stared deep into her eyes, conflicted with what he wants to do and what he should do. In the end, he sighed, “Your hand, please.”

She gave him her hand and he grasped it, murmuring words even he couldn’t understand with the speed it left his mouth and tracing patterns on her skin that he vaguely recalls the meanings of. Then he cut into his hand and her skin. Blood welled from the cuts he made and grasped hers with his bloody hand.

“ _And with this blood she may be bound in deep rehearsed calls of Death…_ ”

A Soul Bond.

When he was done, her wound healed, and what was left is Death’s mark.

He wiped it clean and bandaged his own hand with a ripped up part of his clothing.

They remained in silence as the train’s doors closed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The transition was silent. It suited the calm, swaying movements of the train carriage.

Harry almost feared that they would spend another eternity on the train, waiting and _waiting_ for that _somewhere_ that _Death_ wanted them to be in. But the near rumbling hums erupting from Hermione’s throat was enough to break it.

She was scared, more so than he was.

It was understandable. Harry knew why they left so suddenly—why they had to _move_. Hermione was left in the dark, only knowing things that Harry wanted her to.

He’d done better; had been a better leader some time in his life. Memories of his life from before. It was more blurred than they should be—a haze that gave them a dreamlike quality that he could barely discern from the visions of endless slaughter and commitments of mercy. It was there yet not there. Perhaps with time, his mind would have them sorted.

Hermione stopped her humming to ask again, “Where is that somewhere?”

It was quite an oddly phrased question that brought back memories of another girl with blonde hair and wide, blue eyes that saw what was not visible to others.

Luna would have made that question a lot odder than it should.

Harry chose his words carefully, still quite unable to organize his own thoughts, “Wherever _Death_ needs us to be.” Even he was not privy to everything _Death_ knew. There must be a limit, a line that no mortal- a line that no being made from _Life_ could pass.

He expected Hermione to press, to ask, and to fill in the suffocating silence.

She did not start humming again.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

When the train stopped, it was barely noticeable. The only indication that it had was when they suddenly found themselves surrounded by people, the boisterous crowded noise nearly deafening their ears. Having spent an almost eternity in silence except for their own company, the two magical beings flinched and immediately scuttled away from the crowded train.

Harry kept his head down as Hermione snaked their way out of the worse coagulation of people, using her apparent feminine status to clear the way as best as polite British society could. They had emerged from King’s Cross station, bypassing platform 9 and 10.

There was an odd quality to the scene before him that seemed amiss. Men were wearing decidedly formal suits made of soft materials that are not jeans; a larger portion of the women wore dresses and skirts that reached modest lengths. Every other couple had at least one child with them.

Hermione grabbed a newspaper on the way, not bothering with payment knowing they did not have anything on them. Harry grabbed the hem of her dirty jacket to avoid getting lost. It was only now, when the difference of their clothing was apparent, that Harry realized they had been wearing the same clothes as they had when in the battlefield ( _which one? Which battlefield? Grasslands? Muddied craters? Fallen rubble? Burnt down wards and despairangerfear—_ ).

People stared at them oddly, most likely due to their dirtied and singed clothes. More than one fretfully clutched their purse nearer to their bosom, as if he and Hermione were common thieves. Harry may have done a lot of things—some he still couldn’t quite put a finger on—but he wouldn’t have dressed this way if he were a pickpocket.

That kid beside the gentleman should be the one they are wary of. Harry had seen his fingers dipping down pockets and purses the moment the rush of too many people abated.

Hermione made a sound of surprise just as Harry bumped into her, her nose stuck into the newspaper she had grabbed.

“Sorry.” Harry brushed a hand against his cheek that had impacted on her shoulder. Then he blinked at her astonished face. “What is it?”

Instead of answering, she showed the newspaper.

 ** _The Beatles’ Last Concert at Candlestick Park_**  
_A.L. Lloyd_

Harry furrowed his brows.

“ _1966!_ ” Hermione practically hissed, excitement and trepidation warring in her expression. “We’re in _1966!_ What are we doing here? How is this even _possible?_ ”

He leafed through the thin paper when Hermione suddenly grabbed his hand. “Huh?”

“You know how— _why_ we’re here, right?”

The downturn of her lips and the crease between her eyebrows was what had Harry nod though even to him, the idea of the answer was vague. It was an abstract reason of just _knowing_ ; simplistic and just there like knowing that the sun sets at night. But he understood her need to know that there is _some_ control in what they are doing.

It must seem as if there was no direction, no reason.

A slow smile stretched his lips. That’s right. Hermione had always been dictated by logic, guided by her booksmarts, and controlled by her emotions. Instructions, whether detailed or not, were preferable to on-the-spot thinking. Well, perhaps not ‘controlled by her emotions’ but rather, ‘swept up in times of strong emotion’.  Ron was the one controlled by his emotions.

Then, as if treating a scared animal, Harry pried her fingers off of his wrist and instead angled hers so he could see the black marking. Thoughtfully, he traced the pattern of the mark—of the Deathly Hallows—and watched her face twist into various emotions he couldn’t name.

The Soul Bond allowed for sharing of knowledge at a controlled degree. It was preferable to _Death_ marking her instead of Harry. _Death_ is a being of omnipotence, present in every crevice of reality. A Bond of the same nature _Death_ had established with him was only possible with _Death’s_ own interference.

Harry became the Master of the Hollows. It was an accursed title earned by the Herald of _Death_ —the only way to become one. And only _Death_ could choose who _it_ bestows this title to. Only _Death_ could decide what would happen to _its_ Herald.

As _its_ Herald, Harry was to do what _needs_ to be done.

Hermione was different matter altogether. Her sacrifice and his half-formed bond with her had been enough to tie them together. _Love_ is the strongest of Bonds and sacrifices of _Life_ have the power to alter beyond magic and into the essence of reality.

(And had Ron sacrificed himself, too, they wouldn’t have been torn apart. Hermione wouldn’t have been as lonely as she is; as torn up and heartbroken. The Golden Trio—him and his brother and sister.)

“Oh.” Hermione gasped, knowledge of _whenwherewhy_ flooding her senses. She gripped his hand tight where he had a piece of cloth bandaged around, eyes wide as her mind worked rapidly to store the information. Hermione had always been better at keeping an organized mind than he or Ron.

Harry knew the moment she understood.

For a moment, rage swept across her delicate features, marring it with ugly lines and sharp sneer. And to a degree, Harry could sympathize. But the scowl on her face and blind rage reflected in usually soulful eyes did not suit her (as didn’t the heartbroken and _tired_ resignation). So Harry reached up and tried to physically smoothen it down with his free hand, not even wincing as her hold on his injured hand tightened.

And perhaps it was bad judgment on his part to give her everything she needed to know at once instead of in increments. He wiped away the tears that gathered in her eyes before it even fell.

“It’s why we’re here, ‘Mione,” Harry made much effort to sound soothing, “To avoid it. To correct what has gone wrong and prevent that outcome.”

Her voice full of righteous anger, Hermione hissed, “He _killed_ you!”

“And he killed _you,_ ” Harry threw back, not for the first time the voice of reason yet slight anger slipped into his tone. “And he will kill many others before the End of Magic could be blamed on him.”

They stared at each other, both having never backed down from an argument. Then Hermione broke eye contact and said in a small voice, “How can you be so calm about it?”

Harry paused and considered his words. “I’ve long since come to terms with it.”

He’d cried and raged and screamed. He could still feel it, the burning anger and stinging betrayal, simmering in wait until he could find a better use for them instead of having them uncontrollably _destroy_. He’d come to terms with it, had found solace in that eternity of rage and sorrow.

 _Death_ had given him that time.

“I never even realized it was _him_. I just knew I had to get you out of the way.”

The confession was meant to be offhand but Harry knew better. They shared a silence that was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, the newspaper forgotten on the sidewalk as people rushed around them, paying no heed to the battered teenagers.

Then Harry carefully pulled away. The makeshift bandage around his hand was stained a deep red and he hid it before Hermione could have a chance to catch sight of it.

Harry cast a glance around, “C’mon, let’s go. You’ve got your wand with you?”

She tapped around her clothing and pulled out her wand from her sleeve with a contrite look on her face before she faced him, “Yes. Where’re we off to?”

Taking her hand in his, he lightly tugged her in the direction of a less crowded street, “We’ll have to see if the Goblins could help us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this would be the last update for a while. HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!


End file.
